


trapped into talking

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, First Kiss, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Prompt Fill, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27898501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock is sick of John dating everyone but him. After losing it on John, a power outage and a stuck lift bring some hidden truths to light.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Fics - Part Two [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968538
Comments: 44
Kudos: 213





	trapped into talking

**Author's Note:**

> This is a two-fold prompt fill from a prompt I received on Tumblr and an [idea](https://twitter.com/jhnlockconcepts/status/1334829811601190913) I saw on the Johnlock concept [Twitter](https://twitter.com/jhnlockconcepts)
> 
> The Twitter post:
> 
> _Sherlock and John getting stuck in an elevator after they’ve argued, forcing them to make up then and there._
> 
> The tumblr prompt from anonymous:
> 
> _I wonder if you could write a fic where it's near the beginning of the series, and Sherlock is being very sad and distant from John because he hates that John is always dating these women because he loves him. And maybe John confronts him and it all comes out (no pun intended) and it's sweet and happy Johnlock after angst._

The atmosphere in the lab was thick enough to cut with a bread knife and growing thicker with every silent minute that passed. Sherlock sat scowling down at his notes, stubbornly ignoring John’s fretful pacing.

It was a little over a month since they’d become flatmates, and things were _not_ working out the way Sherlock hoped. When they’d met, he’d taken to John at once. But he’d resolved to keep his distance, and when John made a pass at him, Sherlock had been far too out of touch with the dating game to catch on until after he’d brushed aside any chance at pursuing a relationship.

At the time, he’d been too embarrassed to take back his statements. After the case, he’d thought. He would address the miscommunication once things settled down.

But then there was another case, and then another, and then it was too late because John was _dating._ Not only was he dating, but he brought his dates _home_. Paraded them past Sherlock in what he imagined wasn’t possibly meant to be retribution for Sherlock’s rejection, but which certainly felt like it.

Penance. It felt like penance.

Halfway to Bart’s, the frustration and burrowing sadness had poured out of Sherlock like water from a burst dam, and he’d spewed a flood of venom like nothing John ever saw from him before.

It left both of them smouldering like smoking craters, with John stunned and confused, and Sherlock horrified by how he’d deduced John within an inch of his life. How he’d shouted at John in the back of a cab about the disappointing sex John seemed to be having, how he’d gained a quarter-stone — which he desperately needed after losing weight following his injury — and how he would never amount to anything greater than a part-time locum doctor.

It was cruel, he’d been _cruel,_ and Sherlock knew it.

But, staring at the notes and figures in front of him, he couldn’t find the words to take it all back. So he feigned distraction in the form of research and let John stomp and pace and mutter under his breath until Molly appeared and kicked them both out so a group of students could use the lab.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” John began the second they were alone in the hallway outside the lab, “but you’re a _right_ bastard today.”

Instead of responding, Sherlock quickened his pace. His legs were longer than John’s, and he was a master at escape, and he did his best to leave behind the angry storm cloud that had replaced his flatmate.

He severely underestimated John’s tenacity.

With a sound not unlike an approaching thunderstorm, John stomped after him. “Oh, don’t you dare!” Sherlock moved to side-step him when John caught up, but they’d reached the lift, and there was nowhere to go.

Rookie mistake. He should have gone for the stairs.

Frustrated, Sherlock stabbed at the down button, praying the lift was close. To his relief, it rose from the first floor at once, and he sighed, knowing he only had to weather the storm of John Watson for a little longer. Then he could jump into a cab and disappear.

“Sherlock.” John’s quiet growl was difficult to ignore. But the lift dinged before he could speak, and the doors slid open, providing the perfect avenue for escape.

“Come along, John,” Sherlock said in a bored voice, sweeping into the lift without so much as looking John’s way.

The storm cloud followed on his heels. John crowded in close, his anger erasing his usual respect for personal space.

“You git,” he huffed, jerking his chin upward to meet Sherlock’s eye. “I don’t know what your bloody problem is today, but you’d better explain what that was _right now.”_

“John,” Sherlock said in a placating tone. His eyes were on the floor numbers, silently urging the lift downward. He just needed to buy time, talk some nonsense and leave no room for John to butt in.

He opened his mouth to do so when the lift shook, made a sharp grating noise, and ground to a halt. The lights flickered and died before the emergency lighting came on, slowly glowing to life with a low hum.

 _Oh, god, no_ , Sherlock thought, panic rising. _No, no, no, don’t do this._ His mouth snapped shut with an audible click of teeth. “What happened?”

Next to him, John frowned up at the emergency lights. “Power outage?”

Blowing a frustrated sigh out through his teeth to release some of his building anxiety, Sherlock nodded. “Seems like it.” He prodded at the darkened buttons without much hope, unsurprised when they failed to respond. “We’re stuck here.”

“Good,” John snapped, and Sherlock shot him a scowl.

“How is this _good,_ John?” he demanded, only to back away when John advanced on him again.

“Because there’s nowhere for you to go, which means you’ll have to bloody well talk to me like an adult.”

Sherlock’s expression soured enough to curdle milk. “Oh, is there something we need to discuss?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

It was the wrong move. John’s thunderous face darkened further. The ever-present tremour in his left hand stilled, and Sherlock’s eyes dropped down to his motionless fingers with dawning horror.

Oh, he was in for it now.

“Where the _hell_ do you get off,” John began in a low, dangerous voice, “ripping into me the way you did in the cab?”

His eyes fixed on the unlit control panel, Sherlock pressed his lips together and didn’t answer. Maybe if he ignored John long enough, he’d lose interest and give up.

Again, he was wrong.

“Don’t give me that,” John huffed. He stepped closer, getting right up in Sherlock’s face as much as he could with the height difference between them. “Don’t give me the silent treatment, Sherlock. What you did, those things you said, they were uncalled for.”

Sherlock held his silence, now staring over John’s head, and John’s mouth twisted downward.

“I put up with a lot, you know.” A change in John’s tone, an unexpected softening, made Sherlock glance at him in spite of himself. Seeing that he had Sherlock’s attention, John’s lips twitched to the side in a humourless smile. “Severed heads in the fridge, toes in the crisper — yeah, sometimes I make a fuss, but not as much as someone else would. I make my little fuss, and then I let it go because I know it’s part of who you are. It’s part and parcel of living with you, and while I don’t _love_ finding body parts in the fridge, I live with it.” Eyes narrowing, John paused to make sure Sherlock was listening. “You hear me? I live with it.”

Staring down at him, Sherlock blinked. He kept his lips pressed together and waited.

John seemed to gather his thoughts before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was even softer, almost low enough to make Sherlock lean forward to hear. He resisted, instead straining to catch the words.

“What I don’t plan to live with is… is… whatever _that_ was.” John waved his hand toward the lift doors as if indicating outside. He poked a finger into Sherlock’s chest. “I don’t know what bug crawled up your arse and died this morning, Sherlock, but I know it wasn’t _my_ fault. So _don’t take it out on me.”_

The words, _it wasn’t my fault_ , struck Sherlock like a physical blow. He stiffened and reared back, pressing into the railing running the length of the lift wall. Eyes wide and unblinking, he stared down at John, drawing up to his full height to better loom over him.

“Not your fault?” he repeated in a low voice. “Not _your_ fault?”

But John refused to be intimidated, and he held his ground, jabbing his finger harder into Sherlock’s chest. “Yeah, that’s what I _said_ , or _weren’t you listening?”_ His voice dropped into a sneer, a passable imitation of Sherlock’s harshest tone.

To hear himself mimicked threw Sherlock for a loop, and he gaped. By the time he came back online, John was off and running, ranting away as he tapped his fingertip against Sherlock’s sternum.

“...and if the body parts aren’t bad enough, there’s the noise and the mess, and that mad thing you do with your violin where you make it sound like a bloody cat is dying in our flat, and—”

“Oh, and you’re the _best_ flatmate ever to exist, I take it?” Sherlock interrupted. His cold voice cut through John’s words like an icy wind through thin fabric.

John went silent and still. Eyes narrowed, he said, “Didn’t say I was perfect, but if you’ve got a problem, you can damn well speak up. I’m not a sodding mindreader, am I?”

Annoyed to be shut down so thoroughly, Sherlock clenched his jaw and looked away. “This conversation is over.” He folded his arms over his chest to block John’s jabbing finger.

“It bloody well _isn’t,”_ John growled, trying to pry Sherlock’s arms apart for some unfathomable reason.

Sherlock tried to shift away, but his back pressed harder into the railing. Flustered, he snapped, “What exactly are you trying to do here?”

“I don’t know!” John said, his voice rising as he threw his hands into the air. “God! You really _are_ the most annoying bloke alive, aren’t you?”

Piqued by the insult, Sherlock hissed, “At least I’m not desperate!”

John frowned. “Who is desperate?”

“You!” Sherlock bit out, jabbing a finger toward John’s face. John leaned back, his frown deepening.

“Excuse me? How, exactly, am I _desperate?”_

“Oh, I don’t know, John, let me think.” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe because you’ve lived with me all of one month, and you’ve already managed to drag half of London’s female population through our flat while trying to _get off.”_ He hissed the last, pushing as much disdain as he could summon into the words.

John stared at him. He stared at him so long that Sherlock thought his eyes might burn two twin holes into his face. Just as he began to shift from one foot to the other, John burst.

“This is about me _dating?”_ He sounded confused now, caught on the defensive by Sherlock’s revelation. “What do you have against me dating?”

Pushed to his breaking point, Sherlock snapped, _“Everything.”_

His confusion only growing, John blinked. He tilted his head to the side. “But why?”

The words poured out without cessation, Sherlock at the mercy of both his frustration and a month of suppressed emotions. “I hate it. I hate every single one of them, every woman that you parade through our flat. It’s never-ending, John! I swear, if you’re doing it just to punish me, then well done! You’ve succeeded — I’m properly sorry for rejecting you. Is that what you’d like to hear? Shall I say it again? Sorry, John, _so sorry_.” His voice was hard and acerbic, pushing the apology toward mockery instead of anything genuine.

He opened his mouth to go on, but John held up a hand, clapped it over Sherlock’s mouth, and said, “Alright, shut up a bloody second. Let me catch up.”

His lips mashed against John’s palm, Sherlock stared daggers down at him.

“Okay, let me get this straight,” John began slowly, looking at Sherlock from beneath a furrowed brow. “You’re angry because I’ve been dating, and you don’t like that I bring them back to the flat? No, shut up, I’m not finished yet.”

Sherlock scowled. He considered biting John’s hand before dismissing the idea and subsiding.

John’s eyes searched Sherlock’s face as he went on. “So you don’t like that I’m dating, and you’re sorry for rejecting me? Also, you think I’m _punishing you?”_ Frowning, John shook his head. “But when have I ever…” he paused, going deadly still as their eyes locked. “Are you talking about Angelo’s? That first night?”

Sherlock didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe, refusing to validate the guess. But John figured it out on his own.

“Sherlock,” he said slowly, bemusement spreading over his face, “ _you_ rejected _me._ Remember? You said—”

“I _know_ what I said,” Sherlock growled, shoving John’s hand away from his mouth.

John’s confusion only seemed to increase. “Then what are you—”

“Nevermind, John!” Sherlock turned his head away, frustrated that the lift wasn’t moving and he couldn’t escape.

“Oh, no, I’m not gonna do that,” John replied, his hand dropping to Sherlock’s arm. “Not until you explain what’s going on here.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and glared at the wall. He felt John’s gaze on his face, still searching, and his jaw clenched.

“Hold on…” Something flickered in John’s face, the rising glimmer of realization sparking in his eyes. “Sherlock… do you…” He paused and wet his lips in a nervous tick Sherlock caught from the edge of his vision. “Do you have feelings for me?”

 _“Feelings,”_ Sherlock repeated in a hiss, pushing a depthless disgust into the singular word. “What sentimental rubbish, John. As if I—”

Before he could spew more ire and venom, John grabbed him by the lapels and tugged him down, cutting off his words. Rocking forward, Sherlock opened his mouth to ask what John was doing, but then John’s lips were on his, and Sherlock’s brain ground to a halt.

He took in the sensory input through a narrowing sense of awareness. Each thought struggled to make its way into his mind. The first thing he thought was _soft_ , and the last was _wet_ , because John opened his mouth and swept his tongue over the seam of Sherlock’s lips, and the rest disappeared beneath a rush of physical reaction.

By the time his brain finally rebooted, John was leaning back and breathing heavily with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth.

“You utter git,” he breathed, the warmth of his exhale hot against Sherlock’s lips. “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”

Dazed and still several steps behind, Sherlock blinked. “I,” he tried and had to clear his throat, to John’s visible amusement, “I thought it might be too late.”

“Well, speak up sooner next time, then,” John teased, the sheer 180-degree shift of his mood making Sherlock’s head spin.

Frowning, he said, “I thought you were mad.”

“Oh, I’m furious,” John said, eyes flashing. His fingers wiggled, grip tightening on Sherlock’s lapels. “And I think you’re going to have to make it up to me.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s voice wavered, nearly wheezing from his lips. “How am I going to do that?”

John’s eyes dropped to his lips again, half-lidded and lingering. “I’m sure I’ll think of something,” he murmured.

This time, when he pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, Sherlock was ready.


End file.
